Last Words

by: H. L. Mencken (1926)

I have alluded somewhat vaguely to the merits of democracy. One of them is
quite obvious: it is, perhaps, the most charming form of government ever
devised by man. The reason is not far to seek. It is based upon propositions
that are palpably not true and what is not true, as everyone knows, is always
immensely more fascinating and satisfying to the vast majority of men than
what is true. Truth has a harshness that alarms them, and an air of finality
that collides with their incurable romanticism. They turn, in all the great
emergencies of life, to the ancient promises, transparently false but
immensely comforting, and of all those ancient promises there is none more
comforting than the one to the effect that the lowly shall inherit the earth.
It is at the bottom of the dominant religious system of the modern world, and
it is at the bottom of the dominant political system. The latter, which is
democracy, gives it an even higher credit and authority than the former, which
is Christianity. More, democracy gives it a certain appearance of objective
and demonstrable truth. The mob man, functioning as citizen, gets a feeling
that he is really important to the world - that he is genuinely running
things. Out of his maudlin herding after rogues and mountebanks there comes to
him a sense of vast and mysterious power—which is what makes archbishops,
police sergeants, the grand goblins of the Ku Klux and other such magnificoes
happy. And out of it there comes, too, a conviction that he is somehow wise,
that his views are taken seriously by his betters - which is what makes United
States Senators, fortune tellers and Young Intellectuals happy. Finally, there
comes out of it a glowing consciousness of a high duty triumphantly done which
is what makes hangmen and husbands happy.

All these forms of happiness, of course, are illusory. They don't last. The
democrat, leaping into the air to flap his wings and praise God, is for ever
coming down with a thump. The seeds of his disaster, as I have shown, lie in
his own stupidity: he can never get rid of the naive delusion - so beautifully
Christian - that happiness is something to be got by taking it away from the
other fellow. But there are seeds, too, in the very nature of things: a
promise, after all, is only a promise, even when it is supported by divine
revelation, and the chances against its fulfillment may be put into a depressing
mathematical formula. Here the irony that lies under all human aspiration shows
itself: the quest for happiness, as always, brings only unhappiness in the end.
But saying that is merely saying that the true charm of democracy is not for the
democrat but for the spectator. That spectator, it seems to me, is favoured with
a show of the first cut and calibre. Try to imagine anything more heroically
absurd! What grotesque false pretenses! What a parade of obvious imbecilities!
What a welter of fraud! But is fraud unamusing? Then I retire forthwith as a
psychologist. The fraud of democracy, I contend, is more amusing than any
other, more amusing even, and by miles, than the fraud of religion. Go into
your praying-chamber and give sober thought to any of the more characteristic
democratic inventions: say, Law Enforcement. Or to any of the typical
democratic prophets: say, the late Archangel Bryan. If you don't come out
paled and palsied by mirth then you will not laugh on the Last Day itself,
when Presbyterians step out of the grave like chicks from the egg, and wings
blossom from their scapulae, and they leap into interstellar space with roars
of joy.

I have spoken hitherto of the possibility that democracy may be a
self-limiting disease, like measles. It is, perhaps, something more: it is
self-devouring. One cannot observe it objectively without being impressed by
its curious distrust of itself—its apparently ineradicable tendency to
abandon its whole philosophy at the first sign of strain. I need not point to
what happens invariably in democratic states when the national safety is
menaced. All the great tribunes of democracy, on such occasions, convert
themselves, by a process as simple as taking a deep breath, into despots of an
almost fabulous ferocity. Lincoln, Roosevelt and Wilson come instantly to
mind: Jackson and Cleveland are in the background, waiting to be recalled. Nor
is this process confined to times of alarm and terror: it is going on day in
and day out. Democracy always seems bent upon killing the thing it
theoretically loves. I have rehearsed some of its operations against liberty,
the very cornerstone of its political metaphysic. It not only wars upon the
thing itself; it even wars upon mere academic advocacy of it. I offer the
spectacle of Americans jailed for reading the Bill of Rights as perhaps the
most gaudily humorous ever witnessed in the modern world. Try to imagine
monarchy jailing subjects for maintaining the divine right of Kings! Or
Christianity damning a believer for arguing that Jesus Christ was the Son of
God! This last, perhaps, has been done: anything is possible in that
direction. But under democracy the remotest and most fantastic possibility is
a common-place of every day. All the axioms resolve themselves into
thundering paradoxes, many amounting to downright contradictions in terms. The
mob is competent to rule the rest of us—but it must be rigorously policed
itself. There is a government, not of men, but of laws - but men are set upon
benches to decide finally what the law is and may be. The highest function of
the citizen is to serve the state - but the first assumption that meets him,
when he essays to discharge it, is an assumption of his disingenuousness and
dishonour. Is that assumption commonly sound? Then the farce only grows the
more glorious.

I confess, for my part, that it greatly delights me. I enjoy democracy immensely.
It is incomparably idiotic, and hence incomparably amusing. Does it exalt
dunderheads, cowards, trimmers, frauds, cads? Then the pain of seeing them go
up is balanced and obliterated by the joy of seeing them come down. Is it
inordinately wasteful, extravagant, dishonest? Then so is every other form of
government: all alike are enemies to laborious and virtuous men. Is rascality
at the very heart of it? Well, we have borne that rascality since 1776, and
continue to survive. In the long run, it may turn out that rascality is necessary
to human government, and even to civilization itself - that civilization, at bottom,
is nothing but a colossal swindle. I do not know: I report only that when the
suckers are running well the spectacle is infinitely exhilarating. But I am,
it may be, a somewhat malicious man: my sympathies, when it comes to suckers,
tend to be coy. What I can't make out is how any man can believe in democracy
who feels for and with them, and is pained when they are debauched and made a
show of. How can any man be a democrat who is sincerely a democrat?